


Rule One of the Weird Suburban Family

by shades



Series: Softcore Suburban Barebacking [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Humor, I hope, M/M, poly wedded bliss in the suburbs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4964476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one is at their best in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rule One of the Weird Suburban Family

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [the random tag generator](http://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com/post/122127092751/astriferousaesthetic-go-find-what-a-fic-of-ur#notes) that went around on tumblr a few weeks back.

This is a kitchen in early morning hours.  There’s an island with high top chairs, a stove a few years out of date, and a refrigerator that whirs worryingly in hot summers and freezes the ice cream into an impenetrable brick of ice.  Mostly, the kitchen is clean, granite wiped down after last night’s dinner, the sink empty.  A piece of child’s art work escapes the “R” magnet holding it to the fridge and sways lazily to the floor.  A huge calico cat lands soundlessly on the small kitchen table in the bay window and sprawls in the first narrow slit of morning sunlight coming in the window.  

The minutes on stove’s digital clock click over from 5:59 to 6:00 and there’s a click and hiss as the coffee pot comes on line.  For a while, the steady drip of the coffee is the only sound that is audible.  

Eventually, from upstairs, there’s an inglorious thud, followed by a grunt, and a raspy voice asking “What time is it?  I can smell coffee - did you set the pot up wrong or -  _shit._ “

A second, muzzier voice says, “What?”

“It’s almost 6:20,” the first voice says, “The alarm didn’t work.”  There’s heavy, rapid tread, suggesting hurried movement.

“The alarm works fine, York, you just didn’t set it right,” a third voice says, long suffering, “I get first shower, I’ve got to catch a train -“

“C’mon North,” York says, “I’m opening the shop this morning, we’ll shower together.”

“Hands above the waist,” the second voice says severely, now sounding at least half awake, “Otherwise, no one is getting out of here on time.”  He went on in a shout, “TEE AND DEE, OUT OF BED, TEETH BRUSHED, DOWNSTAIRS IN FIVE OR I’M COMING IN WITH A WET TOWEL.”

“You tell ‘em, Wash,” York says cheerfully over the sound of a shower, “Hands off cocks and on with  - what?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

“York…”

“You know, North, I remember when you used to be fun.  Hey, as long as you’re in here, make yourself useful and wash my back.”

“Hands above the waist!” Wash calls again, voice growing louder as he pounds down the stairs.  “And Theta, I saw you take your brother’s toothbrush - give it back - his is Ninja Turtles, yours is Hulk, we do this every morning.  Get it together.”

When he slides into the kitchen on mismatched socks, Wash opens the fridge with one hand and a runs a hand through his bedhead with the other.  

“MOM!” a pipey voice calls from somewhere upstairs.  “Where are my socks?”

“Did you check your sock drawer?” Wash calls back, “Theta, I swear to god, I did three loads of laundry yesterday.  You have socks.”

“Got ‘em!”  

Wash rolls his eyes and pops two sets of pop-tarts - a rare morning treat - into the over sized toaster and digs out two lunch pails (Avengers and Ninja Turtles) and starts an efficient assembly line of string cheese, bologna sandwiches, juice box, apples, and the last of the cookies that Mrs. Whittiker had brought York for salvaging the transmission in her late husband’s 1976 Pontiac GTO.  

There’s a slippery thud from upstairs and what Wash dearly recognizes as York’s what-harm-is-a-quickie laugh, and without missing a beat he turns on the hot water in the sink and finishes velcro-ing the lunches shut with a flourish.  A few seconds later, he’s treated to a deeply betrayed yelp from upstairs and North laughing,  
  
“Hey!  I got some friendly fire on that one, Wash!”

“Oh, sorry, the water heater in these old houses,” Wash calls back blandly, snatching the pop-tarts as they come out of the toaster and reaching for two travel mugs from the cabinet.  He glanced at the clock again and curses.  
  
“We got intercept in 10, guys, can I get a sit rep?”

“Theta stole my scarf!”

“Did not!”  
  
“Did too!”

“Did not!”

“Oh for,” Wash mutters to himself, filling up the travel mugs (one black, one with Irish cream Coffee-Mate that York pretends to hate but buys by the gallon every time they go to Costco), and then yells, “Please tell me you’re not talking about the identical ones you got from Aunt South and Aunt CT for Christmas?  They’re exactly the same, Delta!”

“But he’s wearing MINE.”

“Guys, give mom a rest, we’re already running late this morning,” North says, appearing at the top of the stairs with his tie undone around his shoulders, cinching his belt closed as he comes down the stairs.  

Delta appears half a step behind him, pouting and solemn eyed.  “We’re only late because you guys forget to set the alarm every time you have sex.”

That brings North up short, a blush staining his cheeks.  “I - uh, Delta - “

Wash barks out a laugh and presses a kiss to Delta’s forehead.  “Please don’t tell the kids at school that, sweetheart.”  
  
“It’s  _true._ ”

“Yeah, well, remember that conversation we had, where just because things are true doesn’t mean we have to tell everyone?  Remember, after you upset that lady at Walmart?” Wash pushes one of the pop-tarts into Delta’s hands.  
  
Delta eyes it suspiciously.  “She  _was_  too wide to get around in the isle.  And I think we’re supposed to have this with juice and cereal to make it a balanced breakfast.”

Wash took a long steadying breath, ignoring North trying not to laugh around his first sip of coffee.  

“Delta, you’re not allowed to talk to me for at least the next ten minutes, alright?” Wash says, not unkindly, running his hands over Delta’s short cropped hair.  “Theta!  What’s the hold up!”

“I’m doing my hair!  Dad’s helping!”

“Great, wonderful, fifth grader wearing hair gel, we get the parents of the year award.”  Wash breaks off a corner of Theta’s cooling pop-tart and pops it in his mouth with a resigned sigh.

“There’s the bus,” North says, gesturing out the front window with his travel mug.  “It’s at the Stevenson’s, should we try to make for it?”  
  
“ _I’m_  ready,” Delta says smugly, leaning into North’s side.  “Pops, why are we the only one that are ever ready on time?”

“I’m selling you to the gypsies for soup stock,” Wash says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “No, North, forget it.  I’ll drive them in in the van, you just have York drop you at the station.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Ugh, I’ve got a committee meeting with the football fundraiser group today,” Wash groans, pulling jackets out of the closet, handing them over to North and Delta.

“Aren’t those the ones that get drunk by 11 am on mimosas and then quiz you on all your very hip interracial adoptions?” York says, coming down the stairs with Theta perched proudly on his shoulders.  Outside, the bus stops, beeps perfunctorily, and moves on when Wash waves it by at the door.  “They’re the ones that don’t get that two ridiculously good looking husbands probably doesn’t mean you’re down for some middle-aged pus-“  
  
“Do not finish that sentence,” Wash says, leveling a finger at him.

“Mrs Stewart asked me if I remembered Africa,” says Delta, who had been born in upstate New York, “And Miss Torello said it was surprising that Theta sucks at math.”  
  
“I don’t suck!” Theta says, swinging down off York’s shoulders.  He grabs the pop-tart from Wash, noticing the missing bites with a groan, “ _Momm.”_

“Pops did it,” Wash lies, and turns to grab the lunches from the island.  “Alright, homework done?”  
  
“Yes,” the boys chorus.

“Teeth brushed?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wash behind your balls?” York asks, leaning over to steal a kiss from Wash while he was distracted.

“Dad!” Both boys are giggling helplessly now, and Wash has officially bottomed out on fucks to give.  
  
“Out, go away,” he says, trying not to laugh, “Don’t come back until you’re fit to be around  _nine year olds_ , jesus christ.”

“Ball washing is a deeply important part of daily hygiene,” York says seriously.

“You tell Mr. Gradey that at the next parent teacher conference when he asks why that’s being repeated on the playground,” Wash says, tossing North the keys to the Jeep and hustling the boys into their jackets.  
  
“What the first rule of the Weird Suburban Family?” North says, opening the front door and letting everyone pour out onto the damp, leaf covered October lawn.

“Don’t repeat anything dad says at school,” the boys say, still giggling.  

Rolling his eyes, Wash locks up the house behind him.  “How do you think people do this who haven’t had military training?”

“Probably with less colorful language,” North says, eyes crinkling with a smile.  He slides a hand around Wash’s waist, kissing him a bit more deeply than they really have time for.  “Love you, have a good day.”

The boys are groaning, horrified, and York blows him a kiss from where he’s already sitting behind the wheel in the Jeep.  “I want a roast with all the trimmings for dinner, doll face.”

Wash flips him off covertly and slid behind the wheel of the van, checks the rearview mirror to make sure the boys have buckled their seat belts, and takes a deep breath.

“All right, boys, here we go.  Mark?”  
  
“ _Sync_.”

The day begins.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ashamed to admit I plan on adding to this hot mess express. If you want to hear me flailing about Mom!Wash and gay space marines, you can find me at [allthingsmustfall](http://allthingsmustfall.tumblr.com)


End file.
